Notes: In some ways this has been the easiest and most difficult chapter to write. Easy, because I've been mapping it out, scribbling dialogue and internal monologues for this chapter since before I wrote anything else. The words just spilled out of me and, as a result, it's the longest chapter so far. Practically two or even three times as long as some prior chapters. Difficult because I wanted to get the balance right. Even in the best of times, Jon and Sansa tend not to be on the same page in their approach to things. A great deal has happened since the last time Jon and Sansa breathed the same air and they have to deal with the fallout. I ask only that you stick with the chapter through to its end before you judge. These kids have a lot to talk about!

0o0o0

Sansa

"There's snow on the ground here, but it's nothing like home. I hate this place. So does Jon, though he never says anything. This is where he'll live and maybe he's just trying to make the best of it. I worry he's working himself into an early grave. There are times when I have to bully him into stopping what he's doing long enough to eat something, or browbeat him into getting a few hours of sleep.

I don't know what to do, Sansa. I suggested to Jon that we send for you, but he said no. That you had quite enough of Kings Landing and its horrors and, of course, he's correct. Write to me anyway. I miss your voice. Give Bran my love – and if you have any suggestions as to how to deal with our older brother, I would be happy to hear them. – Arya"

Sansa sets aside Arya's letter and though she practically has it memorized at this point, she pulls Tyrion's missive proclaiming Jon's heritage to all of the known world from her desk drawer to read again. Each word was carefully crafted by her former husband to maximize its impact and to erase any doubt as to Jon's rightful claim to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

It reads like one of the songs she had loved so as a girl. Romantic. Tragic. Heroic. Star-crossed lovers. A secret marriage. A prince disguised as a bastard, hidden away until he rose to power to save the world from those who would seek to destroy it. She thinks of the boy she grew up with – his brooding presence banished to a lower table lest he shine a light on the stain he brought to House Stark's honor. She imagines that had she known the truth of him then, she and her friends would have fluttered about, sighing and swooning over the tragic melodrama of it all rather than allowing him to fade into the background of her life.

She sets down Tyrion's scroll and leans back in her chair. Closing her eyes, she thinks of the girl she had been before she left her home all those years ago for Kings Landing. Tries to remember a time in her life before worry consumed her every waking moment. For so long she has been focused on the North. On rebuilding it. On solidifying her family's grip on power in the North, for she knows that in that power lies the key to true safety and security for the Starks.

Now, she thinks of Jon on the throne in the South and of what it means for the North.

Jon writes too. Occasional notes inquiring about the status of the repairs to Winterfell. Asking of the North and its people and how they fare now that winter has tightened its grip. The formality of his words and the grooves etched into the parchment by his heavy-handed use of quill and ink is evidence to her of the distance he seems determined to establish between them and the anger she imagines he harbors against her. And yet, each note ends with a postscript, obviously hurriedly added before he sends it winging North, wherein he inquires as to her health and Bran's, or expresses his hope that they are well and safe and happy, and she knows his brotherly instinct to protect is stronger than any distrust that may exist between them.

She sighs and opens her eyes. Lost in her thoughts, she stares into the fire until a noise in the hall outside her solar captures her attention. She looks up to see Brienne usher Bran through the door. She rises and joins her brother near the fire, handing him Arya's most recent letter.

"You should go," he tells her as he skims over Arya's words.

"To Kings Landing?" she protests with a disbelieving laugh. "What of the North? What of Winterfell?"

"I am here," he tells her. "I can look after things."

"But... you... you're..." She gestures towards him with a wildly flapping hand as if her flailing gesture could accurately convey the changes the years had wrought in her younger brother.

"I am still a Stark of Winterfell," he says. "Am I not?" The faintest glimmer of a smile plays about his lips.

She lowers her hands, folding them neatly in her lap and considers the young man seated across from her. In truth, she has recently begun to see glimpses of the boy she remembered from their childhoods. It is as if the death of the Night King has released him in some small way, occasionally allowing Bran to peek out from behind the Three Eyed Raven. She thinks with sadness that he will never be the boy she once knew but then reminds herself that the horrors of the intervening years have changed them all almost beyond recognition. Perhaps with peace they can find their back to some semblance of the people they once were.

"I have responsibilities here," she says. "What would I even do there?"

"I would not think less of you if you choose not to go. You have ample reason never to set foot south of the Neck again," he says. "But you could be of great help."

"I don't think Jon wants me around," she murmurs. The fingers she knots tightly together in her lap are the only outward sign of her inner turmoil.

"Perhaps not at first," Bran says and she flinches to know that he agrees with her. Wonders if it's something he has seen in his visions. "But he will need you, Sansa. You should go."

0o0o0o0

Sansa hears the familiar Northern burr of Jon's voice speaking with someone outside of his tent. Nerves fluttering in her stomach, she reaches out and grasps Arya's hand in hers and wishes suddenly that she had not kept her plans to travel to Kings Landing from him. Knowing without a doubt that he would have told her to stay at Winterfell, she had traveled without sending word to either Jon or Arya, suffering Brienne's disapproving frowns all the way.

When she was but a two days' ride from the city, she had sent a rider ahead with a note addressed to Arya, begging for her discretion. Now, seconds from facing Jon for the first time in months, she can only imagine his reaction upon finding her in camp.

He pushes his way into the tent, muttering to himself while brushing a dusting of snow from his hair and tunic. His murmured words trail off when he catches sight of her and he staggers to a halt, shock painted across his features.

"Sansa –"

"Hello, Jon." Features schooled into a placid expression, she rises to her feet. "It's so good to see you." She offers him a hopeful smile and moves toward him. Her smile fades when he takes a hurried step back to maintain the gap between them.

"I... why..." His eyes widening, he stares at her with growing agitation. "Is all well at home?" he asks, his gaze roving over her face anxiously. "Bran? Winterfell?"

"Everything is fine," she rushes to reassure him. "Bran is fine. The repairs are underway."

"Then..." He shakes his head. "I do not understand. If you are here, who is overseeing everything there?"

"Bran – "

"Bran?" he exclaims, throwing his hands into the air. "Bran is..."

"Fine," Sansa interrupts. "Bran is fine. Bran is... coming back. Bit by bit, he's a little more our Bran every day." She nods her head reassuringly when she sees hopeful tears rise in Jon's eyes and rubs a soothing hand over Arya's back. "Besides, Sam is with him. He'll help."

"Sam? He's still at Winterfell?" Jon asks with surprise. "I thought he would have been well on his way to his mother and sister by now."

"Gilly is due to give birth to their child very soon and he did not want to risk traveling through the snows with her and Little Sam. It's been wonderful having him at Winterfell."

"Aye," Jon's expression lightens for a moment. "That's Sam. He's a good friend to have around." A frown crosses his face. "But I still don't understand, Sansa. Whatever possessed you to travel all this way? What were you thinking? The roads are dangerous –"

Because I hoped you needed me, she wants to say. Because I thought you could use my help."

Instead she says "Because we're family."

She wishes, desperately, to call the words back the moment they leave her mouth. Jon lets out a startled laugh – a bitter, disbelieving sound. Her words – an unconscious echo of his own in the godswood during that last fateful gathering of the remaining Stark siblings – ring out between them, and his hands twitch into fists at his sides.

Sansa sees his mouth move as he silently repeats the word 'family' before drawing in a shaky breath.

"Aye," he agrees. His gaze darts about the tent as he refuses to make eye contact with her or Arya. "I'm afraid we are not equipped for visitors," he says, his voice taking on an oddly formal tone. "We're using the habitable parts of the Red Keep as shelter for those who lost their homes. You will have to stay in camp with us until you go back," he tells her. His tone leaves no doubt that he intends to send her back North as soon as possible.

"It won't be the first time I've done so," she murmurs, reminding him of the nights leading up to the battle to oust the Boltons from Winterfell.

"Soldiers can be rough-mannered. A military camp is no place for a lady," he says then glances at Arya. "No offense intended," he adds quickly.

"None taken." Sansa sees Arya's mouth move into a grin meant to ease the mood. "I keep reminding you I'm no lady."

"I'll... um..." Jon crosses his arms over his chest and then drops them back to his side as if he doesn't know what to do with them. "I'll go speak with Davos and make arrangements for your lodging." He rubs the heel of his hand over his brow as if to push away a headache and then raises his head. "I have to go," he says abruptly. "Grey Worm and our men are waiting for... they're waiting..." He stares at her, his eyes dark and expressionless. "We'll talk later," he says before pushing his way through the tent flap and disappearing.

"I'm not sure if that was a promise or a threat," Sansa says with a wide-eyed look at her sister. "That could have gone better," she sighs, dropping back into her seat and drawing a sarcastic bark of laughter from Arya.

"That's one way of putting it." Arya grunts. "But he's right. The two of you do need to talk."

0o0o0o0

It doesn't take Sansa long to realize that despite what he said, Jon clearly intends to avoid talking with her as long as possible. He leaves camp early in the mornings and does not arrive back until almost dark. She takes her meals with him, gathered around his camp fire with Arya, Tyrion and Davos and he excuses himself the moment Tyrion and Davos drift away rather than allow himself to be caught alone with Arya and Sansa.

On her third day in camp, she settles herself in his tent to await his return. She finds one of his jerkins tossed on his bed in need of mending and so she keeps herself busy using a heavy needle to punch through the leather, repairing the tear along one seam and tightening the buttons.

She lays her work across her lap when he ducks through the tent flap, meeting his startled expression with a serene look.

"You said we would talk later," she reminds him. "It's been three days."

He glances over his shoulder as if gauging his chance of escape before nodding and collapsing onto the foot of his bed with a heavy sigh.

"What's this?" he asks fingering a neatly folded pile of clothing lying on his pillow.

"I brought some of your and Arya's things," she tells him. "You didn't take much with you when you left."

"I didn't think I'd need much," he admits, absently toying with the sleeve of one tunic and she wonders if he means that he didn't expect to survive the confrontation with Cersei's troops or if he had hoped to quickly return to Winterfell once Daenerys had secured the throne.

An awkward silence falls over them as neither seems willing to be the first to speak.

"Ask me," she finally says.

"What?" He stares at the muddy toes of his boots, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

"Ask me what you want to know."

Long moments pass and still he says nothing.

"Ask me," she murmurs. "We cannot move past it until you do."

He looks up then and she sees resentment flash in his eyes.

"What makes you think I want to move past it?" he asks.

"Jon," she whispers, not recognizing the hard and unforgiving man seated before her and she swallows thickly, willing away the tears that threaten. "Please. Jon."

His shoulders rise and fall on a shuddering breath before he finally speaks.

"What... what did you hope to accomplish by telling Tyrion after promising not to speak of it to anyone?" He stares at her and the expression on his face is that of a man who is hopelessly lost. "You must not have thought on it for long," he ponders aloud. "No more than a few hours could have passed between the time we left the godswood and the time you spoke with Tyrion."

Sansa has always known that some form of this question would be his first. Why. He is so like her father. Everything is black and white in his world and he simply cannot see the shades of gray in between.

"I told Tyrion because I wanted him to know there was a better option."

"Why?"

She blinks in surprise. "What do you mean, 'why'?" she asks incredulously, sweeping an arm outward as if pointing to the decimated city beyond the canvas walls of the tent. "After all that has happened, do you really need to ask that?"

He arches a brow. "Truly?" he scoffs. "Did you tell Tyrion about me because you worried Daenerys would reduce Kings Landing to ash? Was that honestly your concern at the time?"

She deflates. "No," she shakes her head. "I knew Tyrion was afraid of her. I suspected that she could act impulsively when she lost her patience. And you only had to see her on that monstrous creature to fear it was possible, but no. I... I didn't tell Tyrion about you because I was worried about what Daenerys would do here. My concern was for what would happen after. I knew she would lay claim to the North if she took the throne and I did not want to allow that to happen."

She heaves out a long breath. "So I told Tyrion and I hoped that he and Varys would support your claim over hers."

"Even though you knew I did not want to press my claim?" he asks. And now? What happens to the North now?"

She gasps softly, her gaze skittering away from his. "We took it back," she whispers brokenly. "And we said we would never kneel to a southern ruler again."

"Is that what I am now?" he asks. "A southern king?" He huffs out a tired sounding laugh. "We took it back," he murmurs, repeating her words. "I was there," he reminds her. "On the battlefield. Taking back Winterfell. Taking back the North."

"I remember." She lifts her head and stares at him with steady regard. "And then you gave it away."

His head jerks back as if struck and then his face goes carefully blank.

"And I'm simply to exile myself to a throne in this snake pit while forfeiting any claim to the North? Sever my ties to home and live out my life here?"

She knots her fingers tightly together and shakes her head and for the first time in so long, words fail her. For all her planning, she has not, truthfully allowed herself to think this far ahead. Every time her mind would graze upon it, she would force her thoughts into another direction and now facing him, she has no answer to give.

"You and I have talked about trusting one often in the past." He leans forward and studies a scar on the back of his hand as if seeing it for the first time. "But the truth is we don't. I think maybe you have never fully trusted me and now I..."

He scrapes a hand through his hair, pulling out the leather tie that holds it back and hides behind the dark curls that tumble into his face. "And the problem is that even if we wanted to get back to a place where we did trust one another, I have absolutely no idea of where we could begin."

She pushes to her feet and stands on shaking legs.

"I should go."

"Yes," he agrees dully. "I think that would be best."

She slips carefully around him, refusing to shed the tears burning behind her eyes and pushes her way outside. Grabbing her skirts in both hands to keep the hem from trailing through the muddy snow, she crosses the short distance from his tent to hers, brushing violently past a startled Brienne.

"My lady." Armor clanking, Brienne follows her mistress into her tent.

"Not now." Sansa sucks in a serrated breath and tears spill over her lashes. "Please, Brienne," she begs. "I just... I just... Please leave me be."

She waits until Brienne reluctantly retreats before collapsing onto her narrow bunk. She buries her face in the furs beneath her in a futile attempt to stifle the harsh sound of the sobs that tear free of her throat. For so long she has held herself together by sheer force of will – building a barrier around her heart as high and as icy as the Wall itself. She had constructed it to keep everyone at a distance, even the people she loves the most. Especially the people she loves most.

For years she has been focused on the North. She has worked tirelessly to secure its independence and her family's safety. After they had taken back Winterfell, after she had dealt with Petyr, she had vowed never again to allow anyone to strip them of their hold on the North.

And then Jon had simply given it away without even the courtesy of discussing it with her.

She knows, oh she knows deep in her heart that he had not done so on a whim. That he had truly believed that bringing Daenerys and her armies North was their only hope of survival – and she concedes that he was right. But she has worked and suffered and dreamed to bring about an independent North and there is a part of her that cannot yet forgive him. A part of her that believes that he has forfeited his right to make any decisions on behalf of the North.

And she is aware, with bitter clarity, that it matters not what she wants. Despite her talk of the North not bowing again, its army is loyal to Jon. Battle after battle, he has stood at the head of the vanguard, wading into the fray, pitting his strength against their enemies. Bleeding for the North. Putting his life on the line for the North.

Though she is sure many of his men wish only to return home, they remain here and work with him shoulder-to-shoulder because he has asked it of them. No matter what she may want or what she has to say, the North is already his.

When the storm of tears finally abates and she has cried herself dry, she lies staring into the darkness until Arya slides into the bed with her, whispering softly and rubbing soothing circles on her back until at last Sansa slides into a restless sleep.

0o0o0o0

Sansa awakens early and lies carefully still lest she disturb Arya. She listens to Brienne's soft, sighing snores and watches as the predawn gloom gives way to a soft light filtering through the canvas walls, illuminating the interior of the tent. The camp stirs awake as does Arya and the two sisters stare at one another from across the pillow they share.

"Are you alright?" Arya whispers, propping herself up on one elbow.

Sitting up, Sansa scrubs the backs of her hands over cheeks that are red and itchy with the residue of dried tears. "I'm fine."

"Did Jon say something to hurt you?"

Sansa draws her knees up to her chest. "Oh, Arya. He and I have been at odds with each other since before he left for Dragonstone." She props her chin on her knees. "I don't think we understand each other very well," she murmurs.

"You hide everything you think and feel," Arya comments shrewdly. "Jon has never learned to hide anything."

"When did you become so smart?" Sansa asks, earning a brilliant smile from her sister.

"I've always been smart. You just never bothered to notice until now."

Sansa's lips curve in a fond smile. "May I ask you a question?" She wraps her arms around her legs, hugging them close to her body. "Does it bother you that the North will lose its independence?"

"Why?" Arya shrugs her shoulders. "Does it bother you?"

"Robb fought and died for it," Sansa murmurs. "Mother died for it. So many have died so that we would never again have to submit to southern rule."

"Jon is not the South," Arya protests. "Jon is..."

"...Jon is Jon." Sansa softens at the memory. He'll keep me safe. I trust him.

"Yes," Arya sits up and wraps her arms around her knees, mimicking her sister's pose. "He's still the same person he always was."

"Jon," Sansa whispers. "Even after all these months of knowing, I can hardly believe the truth of him."

"When I think about it," Arya shifts on the straw mattress and the narrow frame of the bed squeaks in protest, "in a lot of ways, you're very alike."

"We're both stubborn," Sansa grunts.

"Yes. But you both want the same things," Arya points out. "A world free of war. A prosperous and peaceful North." She pushes one foot forward and prods her sister's leg with one toe. "And for our family to be safe."

Tears rising in her eyes, Sansa marvels that this sister, with whom she had always been at odds, should know her so well.

"You just approach everything differently," Arya continues. "You're methodical. Politically savvy. Shrewd – "

"Manipulative?"

"Your word," Arya counters. "Not mine. I would have said 'controlling'. But yes. Though, I think, always in the service of doing what you think right."

"And Jon?"

"Jon approaches everything head-on. He conceals nothing." She heaves out a sigh. "Tyrion and Davos are worried for him. They say he is too honest. That he has no head for politics. That he'll never see the dangers that are part of the underbelly of life at court..."

"They're right."

"You could help him."

"Arya," Sansa protests. "Jon most definitely does not want my help. I don't think he ever wants to see me again."

"Now you're being silly."

"No, I'm not."

"He killed her for you, you know. And for me. To protect us."

Sansa shoots her sister an incredulous look. "No," she protests. "You're wrong. He wouldn't."

"He did." Arya lays a hand on her sister's arm. "He told me."

"He told you that?" Sansa shakes her head in denial of Arya's words. She cannot imagine the Jon she knows admitting something so private to anyone, not even to the little sister he adores. "No. I don't... How did he... What did he say?"

"It was the night after he... the night after she died," Arya remembers. "Tyrion was working on getting drunk and taking us all with him. He kept refilling Jon's cup and Jon... I don't know. Maybe he wasn't paying attention. Or maybe he just wanted to drink and forget."

Sansa sees the minute shift of Arya's body as she rocks back and forth, lost in her memories and she curls a comforting arm around her younger sister's shoulders in response.

"It was terrible," Arya whispers. "I was there when he..." She shakes her head as if to bring herself back to the present. "Anyway, he'd had too much to drink and told me that he knew it was only a matter of time before Daenerys would turn back to Winterfell and want to make examples of us both. To burn us and force the North to its knees."

"Arya..." Sansa breathes in horror.

"He loved her, Sansa. But he had a choice to make and in the end..." Arya sniffles. "In the end he chose us."

0o0o0o0

She breaks her fast with Jon and the others, all of whom take their cue from the grim-faced young king, and the meal passes, silent except for the sound of spoons scraping against wooden bowls. Eager to escape the stifling mood of the assembled group, Davos and Tyrion make their excuses and quickly depart the moment they finish their meals. Jon rises hastily as if to join them but he halts in his tracks at one look from Arya.

Sansa watches from beneath her lashes as her sister stands and lays a hand on Jon's shoulder. Urging him back into his seat, the younger girl moves behind him and wraps both arms around his neck, leaning forward to whisper something into his ear. Sansa is unable to hear what she says but she sees Jon give a reluctant nod.

"Tell Grey Worm and the men that I'll meet up with them in a little while," he grumbles when Arya presses an affectionate kiss to the crown of his head and saunters away leaving Jon and Sansa alone, studying one another with caution.

The dark circles under his eyes – deep purple bruises – attest that his sleep was as restless as hers. He heaves a long-suffering sigh and Sansa feels a flare of irritation when he gestures toward her with one hand as if telling her to get on with it.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm and searching for the words that might make him understand.

"After Father was executed," she begins, staring at a fixed point beyond his shoulder, "Joffrey would take me to the Traitor's Walk and force me to look at his head." She hears Jon make a choked sound but continues to stare past him, lost in her memories. "At night I would dream that Robb would come. He would come for me – an army at his back – and Joffrey would cower with fear before him. And then it would be Cersei screaming for mercy on the steps of the Sept just before Robb took Joffrey's head and place it on a spike for all to see."

She flicks her gaze to Jon's and sees him bob his head as if in approval of her bloodthirsty dreams.

"But Robb never came. He died. Mother died. Arya was gone. I was left alone in that nest of vipers and I knew that I was going to have to find my own way home. And when I finally got there... I realized that I had gone from one living nightmare to another." She plucks at the wool of her skirts, pleating the fabric together with nervous fingers and when she chances another look at him, she sees that the weary bitterness of his earlier expression is gone and his eyes are soft and dark with sympathy.

"I rarely thought of you," she confesses shamefacedly. "Even when we were growing up together – at some point I let you slip into the periphery of my life. When I did spare a thought for you back then, it was to pity you. 'Poor Jon'," she remembers aloud, and sees his eyes flicker and his lips twist in a parody of a smile.

"But when I learned you had been named Lord Commander at the Wall, I knew that if I could make it there, I wouldn't be alone anymore. I thought I'd find the brother I had lost all those years ago... but I didn't."

Jon surges to his feet, a look of deep hurt in his eyes. "Is there a point you're trying to make?" he bites out.

"You were always Arya's brother," Sansa says quietly. "Robb's and Bran's. Even Rickon's. But never mine."

"I would have been," he protests. "I was when you were very small," he reminds her. "Before..."

"I know," she nods. "But the man I found at the wall was neither brother, nor bastard." She gifts him with a tremulous smile. "Instead you were my confidante. My rival. My antagonist and my friend. My only family. My Jon." Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. "There are no words to explain what you became to me. Except to say that you were mine. It was us against everyone and you were mine. Your Stark looks and your Northern burr reminded me of everything that was good about home."

"Sansa," he breathes, sinking onto a seat so near her their knees bump together when he twists to face her.

"We fought and disagreed and you drove me absolutely crazy because you wouldn't listen to me when I tried to counsel you. When they named you king I thought I would be jealous... and a part of me was. But you made me Lady of Winterfell. Gave me the lord's chambers. You put the care of our home into my hands," she says, releasing a shaking breath. "Being the Lady of Winterfell... for the first time in so long, I felt that my life had worth and purpose. Taking care of Winterfell and its people... I prayed that Father could see that I was no longer the spoiled girl I had been when he died. That he could see that I had learned finally to embrace my Northern roots."

"Winterfell is the place I feel truly safe." She stretches out one hand and lays it over the back of his. "Do you understand?" she asks. "Our family has been hunted," she tells him in an urgent voice. "Winterfell is where we are safe. Maintaining control of the North, of its people and its armies, is what keeps us protected." She pulls her hand back and knots it with the other in her lap. "When you gave the North away to Daenerys without even discussing it with me... you broke my heart."

Jon exhales harshly, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I never meant to..." He drops his hands and his dark eyes are soft with sorrow. Unable to sit still, he springs back to his feet and begins to pace in a tight circle, stopping before her. "It was never my intention..."

He shakes his head and clears his throat, staring toward the blackened walls of the city. "I never wanted a crown," he begins. "I never asked for it. But you have to know that I did not give the North away on impulse." He scrapes the palm of his hand over his bearded jaw, the soft bristles rasping as they drag against roughly calloused skin.

"For so long it seemed that nearly everyone around me cared of nothing other than nattering on about the Iron Throne and the crown. First Stannis, then you, Tyrion, Daenerys... and all the while the only thing I could think was that none of it mattered if we were all dead. I felt as if I was screaming into the wind about the Night King and his army and no one could hear me." He sighs in tired remembrance.

"You asked me once if I bent the knee to save the North or because I loved her. And the answer is neither. I did it because she came beyond the Wall with only her dragons to save me and the others when we were surrounded by the Night King and his army." He tips his head back and stares into the sky as if reliving the memory of Daenerys soaring over the frozen lake, her dragons destroying masses of wights with each sweep of their fiery breath. "I did it because she risked her life and the lives of the three creatures she loved more than anything in this world. Because she lost one of them and even knowing for the first time that they were vulnerable, she pledged herself and her dragons to the North. To my people. To fight for my cause."

He lets out a laugh, soft and sad. "You can't know what that meant to me." He stares into Sansa's eyes. "To know that someone who actually had the means to help had heard me and finally believed. To know that I no longer had to shoulder it all alone. That I could return home with two dragons and two massive armies and a fighting chance for the North to survive... it was such a relief."

He lays a hand over the back of his neck and kneads the tight muscles.

"It was because she had already pledged herself to the North that I bent the knee. Not the other way around. Because she turned her back on her own plans to take Kings Landing and instead chose to help the North that I thought her worthy of the crown. I bent the knee because I believed her when she said she wanted a better world for all of us. I bent the knee because I believed she would be a fair and just queen."

"Loving her came later," he says with quiet grief.

The silence that falls over them is thick with sorrow and then Sansa rises to her feet and takes a step toward him.

"Thank you," she whispers, laying a delicate hand on his sleeve. "For telling me." She squeezes his arm through the leather covering it. "You're a good man, Jon. And you'll be a good king. It's silly for me to worry for I know the North will flourish under your rule."

"It's my home," he says simply. "I told you once before that I'll never stop fighting for it and that's still true."

"I know," she says. "I just... I wanted you to understand why I've behaved as I have. Why it will be hard for me to let go."

"Let go of what?" he asks, confusion creasing his brow. "You're still the Lady of Winterfell. I'm stuck here," he tells her. "The North needs you there. I need you there to take care of it for me."

"It's my fault," she whispers, eyes dimming with sorrow.

"What is?"

"You. Being trapped here."

He swallows hard and rubs a hand over his brow. "It would have come out eventually," he says gruffly. "Too many people knew."

"I wish there'd been another way," she says in a voice thick with tears. "Can you forgive me?"

He grimaces and looks away and she wonders if he's thinking that she should have at least tried to find another way. "Ned Stark's daughter will speak for the North," he says. "She's the best they could ask for."

"But their King is exiled far from home."

She surges toward him and feels him stiffen in her embrace for a heartbreakingly long moment until at last his own arms come around her and he crushes her against his chest, burying his face in her long, coppery hair. Swaying back and forth, they cling to one another and to what was almost lost.

0o0o0

A/N: From the outset, one of the challenges of writing this story has been to address the tensions between Jon and Sansa and the consequences their actions have not only for the greater GOT world, but also on each other. It's complicated on a lot of levels, not the least of which is that within the fandom itself there are varying factions who have chosen their corner and do not easily see perspectives from outside their chosen character/viewpoint. Several readers have expressed concern or curiosity about how Jon could possibly forgive Sansa for betraying his secret. Others have wondered how Sansa could reconcile herself with Jon having handed the North to Daenerys.

The way I see it, the friction between Jon and Sansa stems from the characters inabilities to see beyond their own myopic viewpoints to truly understand the other person's. He's focused on the threat of the Night King. She is focused on an independent North.

What I was hoping to accomplish with this chapter was to give both characters an opportunity to voice their thought processes and why they did things they did; why they think the way they think. Or, I guess, more to the point, why I think they did things the way they did.

I don't believe Jon bends the knee to Daenerys so that she will bring her armies and dragons North, just as I don't believe he bent the knee because he fell in love with her. In truth, he doesn't bend the knee until after she pledges her support. After Viserion is killed by the Night King she makes a vow to Jon: "We're going to destroy the Night King and his army and we'll do it together. You have my word."

For me, this is important. Because I believe it is in that moment – when she pledges herself and her two remaining dragons – to his cause (without again demanding that he pledge fealty first) that Jon comes to the belief that she will a worthy queen. And that is what allows him to bend the knee. Of course, in doing so, he gives Daenerys dominion over the North once she's on the throne.

And that puts him squarely at odds with Sansa.

Sansa's way on the other end of the spectrum on this. She's never seen the dead. I think Sansa believes Jon is speaking truthfully when he talks about an army of the dead, but it has to be very abstract to her. I don't know that the human mind is capable of truly understanding something as fantastical as that without visual proof. Instead she's focused on the North. On its independence. On maintaining that independence.

When season 8 begins, she's clearly furious with Jon. She cannot comprehend how he could give up his crown. She cannot concede that they needed Daenerys and her dragons and her armies. What drives her?

I don't subscribe to the theory that she's acting selfishly. Sansa went South as a young girl, filled with dreams of princes and pageantry and romance. And instead of finding all of that she found horror. She was brutalized and traumatized and when she gets back home, I believe she equates the North with being the one safe place for the Starks. She's not Brienne or Arya. She doesn't wield a sword and fight on the battlefield but she will fight with every weapon in her arsenal, including revealing Jon's secret, to prevent anyone or anything from holding power over her and her family again.

So, this entire chapter was a way for me to give both characters an opportunity to explain their motivations and thought processes as I see them. As I've said before, we all view the show and its characters and their motivations through our own personal filters. Your mileage may vary and based on various comments this story has received on previous chapters, I am sure there are those among you who will be in vehement opposition to what I've laid out here. The only thing I can say is that this is my story, my imagination, my time and labor. It's not a prompt-fill. It's the story that I'm basically telling myself to fill in the blanks or tweak the finale in a way that makes the most sense to me and in a manner that I find pleasing.

You may disagree with what I've written. That's cool. I still am interested in your thoughts, even ones in opposition to mine.

Before these notes get as long as the chapter itself, I'm going to move along. Thanks, as always, to each and every one of you who are reading. We're all busy people and the fact that you're taking some of your precious free time and using it to read something I've written brings me a great deal of joy.

Now that Sansa is finally in Kings Landing, upcoming chapters will heavily focus on her and Jon's points of view as well as their future interactions. This is the last of the chapters that I had (more or less) outlined. I have the final scene loosely written. And I have jumbled notes written on paper and on my notes app that I have to cobble together to bridge the gap between this chapter and that last scene. All of which is to say I hope to have something for you next weekend, but...